


Holding Vigil

by kalliel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Bondage, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, F/M, Floor Sex, Horror, Minor Character(s), POV Minor Character, Rough Sex, Season/Series 05, cold dicks, distinctly unromantic sex, handling dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-24
Updated: 2010-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/kalliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walt and Roy remember to burn the Winchesters' bodies after shooting them. </p><p>Meg/Roy/Walt. Missing scene/horror AU of 5x16 "Dark Side of the Moon."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Vigil

HUNTERS HAVE LOOSE TONGUES when you get a few rounds in them. These two take gin and coke, and they like a lovely lady, especially one who knows her drinks. She gestures toward a large brass chalice, which scrutinizes this lovely lady's customers from a high shelf above the bar taps. They have no idea, she tells them; she smiles. No idea at all.

These two hunters take this as an invitation, move in closer. Their names are Roy and Walt. They are traveling--a snicker--jacks of all trade. And no; no, they're not busy tonight. 

A cock-eyed inspection of her nametag precipirates a fond _Meg, darlin', we're not busy at all._

 

\--

 

Hunters have loose tongues and looser belts. They come to her both at once, like the sad pigs humans are. Flushed with gin and drunk on power, they coo stale nonsense in her ears and brush her shoulders with rough hands. Callus catches on brastrap, fingers scrape her shoulders white, the bra comes undone.

They kiss. Brutal and bloody and not at all the way the lovely lady liked. Not at all the way _Meg_ kissed her, tonguing soft smoke down her throat and into her everything. Poor girl, Meg thinks, and revels in the taste of blood.

Walt--or perhaps Roy; they're the same to her--watches in the halflight, plucking at his belt. It falls to the ground like a snake from a tree, serpentine beauty. Perhaps she can love these two after all.

Walt cinches the belt around her wrist, tight against the table leg. (There are no bedposts.) Sibilant hiss of leather pulled quick across denim, and Roy follows suit.

Sex talk hasn't changed much in recent centuries. Meg yawns.

 

\--

 

Hunters keep their knives in their belts. Pity their belts are by Meg's hands.

She could kill them--knifes between her teeth like a scimitar smile, strong hands and sharp nails at their carotid--but if there's one thing she's learned in Hell, it's the downfall of instant gratification. She gives them their knives and laughs in their faces and she tells them big things about their small, sad world. Big things about Sam (she remembers the flex of his body, the look of anguish on Dean's face as she moved him-- beautiful, beautiful Sammy) and Dean (so much history, though the memory she'll cherish is the kiss, the bile of revulsion she tasted on his breath as she slid herself between his teeth, nibbled at chapped lips, refused to just _let go_ ). Choice things about the Winchester legacy of toil and bloodshed.

And true to lore, hunters don't take kindly to catalysts of war. "I know," she says, pulling her bra back up over this lovely lady's pert pale breasts, "where you can find them."

 

\--

 

Hunters are careless when they have guns in their hands. Bullets mean mastery (which is, of course, a lie; one they--of all people and all professions--should have discarded long ago. But like all monsters, hunters are creatures of habit, and she lets them walk inside, their careless bravery unfurled and undulating. 

The door is unlocked. The two creep in. Meg lingers outside the salt line.

The Winchesters are careless, too.

 

\--

 

Hunters with human blood on their hands--though not for the first time. In spite of their fear, like lead under their boots as they make their shambling broken-puppet way out the door, she knows it was not their first time. Their hands and arms are streaked with blood; Meg gives them credit for retrieving the bullets. Weapons, thrown haphazardly into the truck bed (still loaded). Prints wiped from the doorknob with an old grease rag.

They're forgetting something.

Roy and Walt turn back and return with the Winchester's bodies, hugged against their cheeks in a fireman's lift. They don't get far before they collapse under the weight, and the Winchesters streak the gravel with still more blood.

Prints wiped again, as they close the door that final time.

Roy helps Walt double-team Dean Winchester into the truck bed, banging and bruising and still bleeding, less than fresh from the slaughter. Then Sam. His head cracks against the blade of Walt's shovel and sticks there.

 _Get in the car!_ they scream at each other, fear-hoarse, and the truck spits up gravel as it tears someplace that is not as far nor as hidden as Roy and Walt think.

 

\--

 

Hunters take their corpses out to pasture. And there, among the cow dung and the rush grass soaked in petrol, Roy and Walt take a lighter to Sam Winchester. (Hair burns black and caustic. Meg breathes in deep and again remembers being Sam. Beautiful--now burning--Sam.)

Dean next, flame burning the soles of his feet a shining red, which reminds Meg fondly of Hell.

When the blaze reaches the wet mess of torso, Walt spills out more kerosene, careful not to let the flame travel up to the bottle. Roy unlaces his shoes. The smell of melting rubber doesn't mask charred human flesh. Shoes, jackets, pants--that same long-suffering, sibilant sound as the hunters unhitch their belts and throw these, too, to the flames--all burn.

They stand naked, shivering in the early morning cold, already red and peeling from the hidden deadly sun, and Meg watches their cocks waggle as they skitter to and fro, tending their bonfire.

Meg does not tell them that revenge changes nothing; the whole world will look like this pyre, come Judgement Day. Come _soon_. 

She touches this lovely lady's hands to this lovely lady's torso, raw and seared and ever-burning with Carthage's holy fire, and watches the Winchesters end as ash. There is nothing wrong with revenge.

 

\--

 

Hunters don't hold vigils.

The pick-up is gone long before the thick black Winchester smoke has spiraled up to Heaven. Any strangers who have seen the blaze are slow in coming. Still Meg waits.

Clear pus leaks from her body and sticks lacy, feathered skin to the cotton of her shirt. Sam smolders, balding now and faceless. Dean's thigh comes apart in pieces when she prods at him. This is what is left of the perfect vessels of God.

She waits, because like she, the Winchesters cannot truly die. Walt's jacket has melted into Sam's neck, but she peels it back--sees fire-shriveled muscle and tendon and the boiled residue of fat--and smiles. A soul will find safe harbor in this mess. Frayed nerves, still firing in a mockery of life, are ready. (Roy and Walt, shivering and naked, did not tend their fire well.)

Sam and Dean will return soon, and their bodies are waiting.


End file.
